View Point, Vantage Point
by Nyte Quill
Summary: A new perspective can really change the way you see things. Peggy's unique point of view from Don's desk during "In Care Of". A semi-companion piece to my 'Good Boys, Nice Guys' story. R&R, and as always, enjoy!


When Peggy barges into Don's office, upset and needing to work, she knew as long as he isn't there it'll be quiet. Actually, she allows herself to reflect, even if he _were_ there it would probably be quiet- as long as the rest of Creative wasn't around to raise the ambient noise level. Don had the capacity (though it often went unexercised) to work quietly, competently, even efficiently. It was usually when under a deadline, or while waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning being attracted to a wet surface, that he let his blood alcohol levels go up to make himself more fluidly conducive to brilliance. Maybe he thought the process of osmosis worked so well, there was little reason to divert from a tried and true tactic. Then again, when she worked long and hard on something, whether he managed to nab credit or not, it was a mark (though she remained unsure exactly in whose favor it showed) that they reached the same destination by such different paths.

At the moment, she's feeling less than magnanimous, and certainly less forgiving of his foibles, and she bursts with a sense of disappointed entitlement. She works her ass off so much more: the corner office with the wall to wall to wall view should be hers, the letterhead should include part of her monogram. But nooooo- it's only the men (and the woman they all want to sleep with, if they haven't already) that make that cut... and even in her ire, Peggy has to admit that while she hasn't gotten all she deserves she has technically come out a little better than Joan, for all her partnered status. The rush of indignation leaves her so swiftly she sways a bit, feeling like an express has just blown by.

As she sits down at Don's desk, not merely presented with the business end but actually sitting behind it as though it's truly her domain, she's struck by the mild disarray- and the scent of stale scotch. Anyone viewing her now, glass in hand as she puzzles over it before returning to the cityscape laid out before her, might think it was hers. But it was just an existing element hadn't thought to change, and in truth it gave her an added sense of connection to the man whose seat she now occupied.

And occupied she was, lost in memories, viewing moment after moment as clear as a film reel. Nostalgia; that was the word he had used those many years and endless presentations ago. Touching his hand where it lay on the polished wood of the desktop, tentatively bold, unsure she could deliver what was probably expected of her, but determined to try- until he had informed her in clear cold terms how unnecessary such an act was. She'd taken Joan's advice that night, about the paper bag evaluation of herself, and had tried to view herself not from a masculine viewpoint, but through Don's eyes alone. How _did _he see her? How did he want to see her, if at all? And how did she want to be seen by him? Was it the mere sting of common rejection that had driven her to the mirror that night, or something less simple to identify? Later she had come to understand that it was more _because _of the way he viewed her, as a colleague and collaborator who occasionally needed guidance and protection. Yes she was attractive, but she was valuable for so much more than her looks, and something in him couldn't bring to bear any action that might disrupt such a connection. Ironically, he parented her more than his own offspring, much in the same way her maternal drive only revved into gear for him.

As that thought slid home, she saw the night his head had lain in her lap, a mother comforting a child- even if she had never performed such a maternal act with her own. Yet to tend to Don had seemed more natural, more right, if only because she was aware more than most the lost little boy that resided within.

Despite his constant insistence he could do it all himself, and the fact that when he put a sober mind to it, he usually could, there was something in him that was able to inspire the feeling that he shouldn't have to. The times she wanted to beat him senseless or knock some sense into him were tempered with a desire to shield and comfort him, and to those who knew the truth about his background (a fraternity of which she was a privileged member) the desire was doubled or more: to safeguard, to encourage, to support and provide all the things he had been denied growing up and even still sought now.

That thought settled its way onto the previous one like a top sheet on a bed, and she mentally smoothed out the wrinkles before she allowed it to rest.

Her fingers tightened around the glass, the curve of the gold rimmed barware fitted well in her palm, as though it belonged there. Maybe it was like Thor's hammer or Arthur's sword: whosoever was worthy to sit behind this desk could wield pens and libations with equal familiarity, as though it tailored itself to its bearer. In that moment, she had a flash. Her body disengaged from the normal prim secretarial posture she maintained, even moving past the relaxed tension of a copywriter, all the way to an arrangement of limbs that felt foreign and familiar at the same time. Knees slightly splayed, spine molded to the curvature of the chairback, balls of the feet flexed slightly to put the body at a gently elevated angle. The forearm that laid on the desk, glass still cool in its grip, turned its wrist ever so much, the cool linen of a crisp shirtsleeve catching on the lining of an Italian wool coat. The sides of the neck grazing a starched collar as it stretched to alleviate the knots beneath, done up each day with the same regularity as the tie that encircled it. The other hand abandoned its aimless typing against the pressed material of the slacks that covered the leg to play the air as its attached limb draped casually over the armrest. And there they sat, minutes ticking silently by, marked only by the sun as it edged towards the horizon beneath the Madison skyline...

A sudden rush of awareness (and mild parethesia in her fingers) brings Peggy back to the present. Her hand is experiencing that surge of pins-and-needles protest from its diminished circulation/bloodflow, and she shakes it to restore sensation as she shakes herself out of her musings. What an odd feeling, she reflects to the girl in the window across the office. She gives herself a final stir, takes a steadying sip before setting the glass aside, and turns back to herself to get to work.

**Author's Note: a while in coming, I know, but I just saw the season finale a few days ago. A lot struck me, and while it's not where I'd intended to go with this, I think it came out pretty well. I think I experienced a Draper moment there. :)**

**And yes, I know I switch tenses, but it's to follow that flow of nostalgia before she's thrust back into the present.**

**Anyway, you know the drill. Whether you liked or not, tell what you liked (or didn't) in a comment. Reviews are always greatly appreciated. **


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